7. Elena
7
ELENA
T he pregnancy test stares back at me like an accusation, two pink lines that turn my carefully orchestrated world on its axis. I shouldn’t have even tested—my period’s only five days late, and I’ve always been irregular.
But something felt different.
My breasts are tender, certain smells make me nauseous, and there’s a bone-deep exhaustion I can’t shake.
Still, I told myself it was stress, the weight of too many secrets finally catching up with me.
But these two pink lines don’t lie.
My hands shake as I reach for the box, reading the instructions for the fourth time. Maybe I did it wrong. Maybe morning urine would show different results. But three other tests from different brands show the same damning truth.
How the fuck did this happen?
I sit on the edge of my marble bathtub, the cold stone seeping through my silk robe as memories assault me. Anthony’s penthouse three weeks ago, his hands surprisingly gentle as he undressed me, while all I could think about was the shipping manifests I glimpsed on his desk.
Then Mario in the hospital parking garage just days ago, that kiss that felt like drowning and breathing all at once.
The timing makes my throat close with panic. There’s no question about paternity—this is Anthony’s child growing beneath my heart, conceived during one of our calculated encounters while I was hunting for information about the Irish mob’s trafficking routes.
I’ve always been so fucking careful. Even when Anthony would whisper in my ear how much better it would feel without barriers, how he wanted to feel all of me, I never wavered. The pack of pills in my bathroom drawer is meticulously marked, each one taken at exactly the same time every morning. The calendar on my phone tracks everything—my cycle, our encounters, the lies I tell.
My mind races through every meeting with Anthony over the past five months. The night in his penthouse when a storm knocked out power across Manhattan, and we fucked by candlelight while I memorized the contents of his safe.
The quickie in his office before a board meeting, where I planted a bug under his desk. The weekend at his Hampton’s estate, where I copied the contents of his laptop while he slept.
I was always protected. Always in control. The pills, the backup methods, the morning-after insurance when I felt especially paranoid—it was a system as carefully planned as every other aspect of my life.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck .
My hands drift to my still-flat stomach, and bile rises in my throat. Was it the antibiotics last month for that sinus infection? Did they interact with the pills?
Or that weekend in the Hamptons when food poisoning had me vomiting for hours—did that compromise their effectiveness?
The marble is ice-cold against my thighs as I slide to the floor, mind spinning through possibilities. I’ve seen what pregnancy does to women in this world. How it binds them, traps them, makes them vulnerable. Look at Bella—even with Matteo’s protection, her pregnancy has made her a target.
A baby wasn’t part of the plan. It wasn’t supposed to be possible, not with all my precautions. I press my palms against the cool marble, trying to ground myself as memories of Anthony’s touch make my skin crawl.
All those careful calculations, all those meticulously planned encounters, and somehow I still lost control.
My phone buzzes on the counter, distracting me from my panicking thoughts: Miss you, beautiful. Dinner tonight? I have something special planned. Wear that red dress I like.
The sight of Anthony’s name makes bile rise in my throat, but my mind is already racing ahead.
A baby changes everything. A Calabrese heir growing in my womb—it’s leverage I never expected, access I couldn’t have planned. The perfect cover for gathering deeper intelligence, for proving myself more valuable than just another society girl playing at power.
But it’s also a liability. A Calabrese baby means I’ll never be free of them. If Anthony claims this child as his heir…
My hand trembles as I rest it on my still-flat stomach.
I’ve seen what this world does to children born into power. Look at Bianca, look at Mario and Matteo—all of them scarred by their birthright in different ways.
I look again at Anthony’s text. Every instinct screams to cancel, to buy myself time to think. I could claim a migraine, a last-minute event crisis, anything to avoid sitting across from him tonight while carrying this secret.
But that’s exactly why I need to go.
The thought crystallizes as I watch my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look the same—perfectly styled hair, no hint of the morning sickness that’s been plaguing me for days. No one would guess that beneath my composed exterior, everything has changed.
My fingers hover over the phone screen. This is what I do, isn’t it? Turn complications into advantages, find leverage in unexpected places.
I think of Bella, how her pregnancy bound her so tightly to the DeLuca family that no one questions her presence in their inner circle anymore. Even Matteo’s most paranoid captains accept her now, seeing only a beloved wife carrying the next generation.
Could I play that same role in the Calabrese empire? Not just the ambitious mistress, but the mother of the heir—someone who needs to be protected, trusted, included.
The nausea rises again, but I swallow it down. This isn’t the time for weakness. Mario’s voice echoes in my head: “The best cover is the one people write for themselves, little planner. Let them see what they expect to see.”
I pick up my phone, fingers steady as I type: Can’t wait. Reservation at 8? The red dress is at the cleaners, but I have something else you’ll love.
His response is immediate: Car will pick you up at 7:30. Don’t keep me waiting.
The command in his tone would have irritated me before, but now it just confirms I’m making the right choice. Anthony Calabrese likes to feel in control—it’s why he never questions why a high-end event planner would be so eager to warm his bed.
Men like him always underestimate women they think they own.
I stand, letting my silk robe pool at my feet as I walk to my closet. Not the red dress—that would be too obvious, too eager to please. Instead, I select a black Versace that makes me look expensive but not desperate.
The neckline is conservative enough for a business dinner, but the way it hugs my curves leaves little to imagination.
Perfect for a woman who doesn’t know she’s carrying his heir.
The bathroom counter is still littered with evidence—pregnancy test boxes, the tests themselves. I gather everything methodically, wrapping it in paper before burying it deep in the kitchen trash.
No one can know. Not yet.
Not until I figure out how to play this to my advantage.
My makeup routine is automatic—concealer under eyes that have seen too little sleep, contouring to sharpen cheekbones that haven’t yet betrayed morning sickness, a nude lip that won’t leave telling marks on wine glasses I won’t actually drink from.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I let Anthony take me against any surface he wants while memorizing shipping schedules visible on his desk. Now I’m carrying his child while hunting for evidence of human trafficking through his ports.
Mario would appreciate the symmetry, if nothing else.
My phone buzzes again—a message from him this time, as if my thoughts summoned him: Watch your step, little planner. The Irish are moving pieces we don’t see yet.
I ignore the way my heart races at his name, the phantom sensation of his lips against mine in that parking garage. That’s a complication I can’t afford right now, not with Anthony’s child growing beneath my heart and a human trafficking operation to expose.
Instead, I focus on my reflection as I fasten diamond earrings—Anthony’s gift after our first month together. The woman in the mirror looks calm, collected, perfect. No one would guess at the calculations running behind her eyes, the secrets building beneath her heart.
Let them see the obvious story—the society climber, the mistress reaching above her station. The familiar tale of a beautiful woman using a baby to trap a wealthy man.
The truth is so much more dangerous.
A car horn sounds outside—Anthony’s driver, right on schedule.
It’s showtime.
Three hours later, I let Anthony press me against his bedroom wall, his hands possessive on my waist. The silk of my dress slides against the expensive wallpaper as he pins me there. His touch is demanding but gentle—always so careful with his toys—and I force myself not to flinch, to arch into his hands like I want it, like I’m not carrying his child while hunting for evidence that could destroy him.
His cologne is too strong this close, mixing with the lingering taste of the wine I pretended to drink at dinner. But his kisses taste like victory and Macallan 25 as I play my part—the ambitious mistress, the woman who might give him an heir.
He thinks the slight trembling in my limbs is from desire, not the constant nausea I’m fighting down.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against my neck, his skilled fingers tracing patterns on my hip. I let my head fall back, giving him better access while my eyes scan the room behind his shoulder.
Every detail matters now—the papers scattered across his mahogany desk, the phone he left carelessly on the nightstand, the laptop glowing dimly in the corner.
New papers catch my attention—shipping manifests from Vietnam and Thailand, port authority documents that shouldn’t be accessible to a “legitimate businessman.” Anthony’s hands slide lower, and I use the movement to angle us, letting him think he’s directing our dance while I get a better view.
A phone conversation drifts in from the other room—his assistant working late, voice muffled but clear enough: “…merchandise arriving Thursday. The containers need to clear customs by…”
Everything clicks into place: the missing piece of the investigation into the trafficking operation. The gaps in the schedules, the mysterious shipments, the untraceable payments—it all connects.
“You’re distracted tonight,” Anthony murmurs against my throat, his teeth grazing my pulse point. His hands tighten possessively on my hips, and I realize I’ve let my mask slip, let the hunter show through the illusion of prey.
I cover it with a practiced moan, sliding my hands into his perfectly styled hair. “Just thinking about how much I want you,” I breathe, directing his attention lower while my eyes stay fixed on the papers.
The manifests show routes that don’t match any official records—gaps where people could disappear without a trace. Ships that dock but don’t exist in any database, cargo that vanishes between ports.
His hands find my zipper, drawing it down with agonizing slowness. The whisper of metal seems loud in the dim room. “Thinking about me?” he asks, and there’s something dangerous in his tone that makes me focus fully on him for a moment. “Or about my business papers?”
My heart stutters, but years of practice keep my voice steady, sultry. “About that thing you did in the car,” I purr, sliding my leg between his. “I’ve been wet for you all through dinner.”
The lie tastes like ash, but it works. His eyes darken with masculine pride, and he captures my mouth in a bruising kiss. His hands are everywhere now, and I match his passion with carefully crafted desire. Every gasp, every moan, every arch of my body is calculated to make him forget that momentary suspicion.
The expensive silk of my dress pools at my feet as he undresses me with practiced precision. His mouth traces a path down my neck, across my collarbone, marking me as his property. I let my head fall back, playing into his possessiveness while my eyes remain fixed on the documents across the room. His fingers trace patterns on my skin that should feel like fire but instead leave ice in their wake.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs again against my throat, and I force myself not to think of different hands, a different voice in a hospital parking garage. Anthony’s touch is all technique and no passion—like everything else about him, it’s a performance meant to demonstrate his power.
I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, letting him think he’s conquered me completely. His kisses grow more demanding as he backs me toward the bed, and I respond with all the skill of a woman who’s made deception into an art form. My fingers work at his shirt buttons, each touch a lie I tell with my body.
The mattress hits the back of my knees, and I let myself fall, pulling him with me. The weight of him should feel like desire, like victory, but all I can think about is the child growing inside me.
A child not conceived from love but from deception.
But I’m good at this part—making men see what they want to see. Anthony likes to think he’s irresistible, that I can’t help but melt for him. So I arch beneath him, matching his rhythm with calculated precision, letting him believe every gasp and shiver is real.
His mouth claims mine again, tasting of expensive whiskey and darker things.
All the while, my mind catalogs details: a burner phone on his desk I hadn’t noticed before, files labeled with dates that match suspected trafficking incidents, a calendar showing meetings with shell companies I’ve been tracking.
When Anthony finally falls asleep, I’ll have work to do. But for now, I arch beneath him, playing the role of the perfect mistress.
I try not to think about how different Mario’s touch felt in that parking garage—electric and real in a way that makes this feel like a pale imitation. I can’t afford that comparison, not now. Not with Anthony’s child growing beneath my heart and evidence of human trafficking waiting to be discovered.
So I lose myself in the performance, letting Anthony claim what he thinks is his, while behind my closed eyes, I plan how to use every scrap of information to my benefit.
Later, after Anthony falls asleep, I slip into his massive bathroom. Everything is marble and gold, obscenely luxurious like the rest of his penthouse. An ornate chandelier casts dancing shadows across Italian tile as morning sickness hits me like a freight train.
I barely make it to the toilet, my knees bruising against the marble as I retch. Everything burns—my throat, my eyes, my pride.
When I can finally stand, I study my reflection in the gilded mirror.
I look exactly like what I am: a woman playing too many dangerous games. My lipstick is smeared, my carefully styled hair mussed from Anthony’s hands. Beneath my La Perla lingerie, his child grows like a time bomb.
Mario’s warning echoes in my head: “Be careful playing with fire, little planner. Some burns leave permanent scars.”
I rest my hand on my stomach, feeling the slight swell that might be real or might be my imagination. A baby should be a weakness—a vulnerability in a world that preys on soft things. But maybe that’s exactly what I need—a weapon no one will see coming.
After all, hasn’t Mario taught me how to turn weakness into strength? How to make everyone underestimate me until it’s too late?
I fix my lipstick with steady hands, already calculating next moves. Anthony stirs in the other room, calling my name. Time to play my part.
Let them all think I’m just another ambitious woman who got herself pregnant by a powerful man.
They’ll never see me coming.